


disaster catalogue

by NotAllThoseWhoWander



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, get excited, this one's gonna be smutty people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAllThoseWhoWander/pseuds/NotAllThoseWhoWander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He leans back and rubs his eyes, Combeferre's curt message blurring and coming into focus.</p><p>"e, i think you need a roommate."</p><p>Or, Grantaire moves in, and Enjolras expects too much of people, and there always seems to be a revolution to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

* * *

Sometimes, Enjolras wonders why he even bothers.

He's awake at two-thirty in the morning, on a Sunday, studying for a Poli-Sci test. But passing a test doesn't ensure a passing grade. A passing grade in Professor Klener's boring-as-hell lecture-based class doesn't mean graduating. Graduating doesn't mean getting a meaningful job, in the same way that volunteering at the Center for Youth Diversity doesn't mean positively benefitting at-risk kids, because no matter how many lectures Enjolras gives on activism and voter's rights and suppression, there will always be kids who couldn't give a fuck about any of it. For every protest he and his friends drive into the city for, for every passerby who takes an interest in their cause, there will be a thousand—a hundred thousand—a  _million_ —more who are content to just go with the flow, who are content to sit by and let the world head where it might.

 _Dammit_. He slams his textbook closed. A stock photo of two smiling students, bent over a laptop computer and world map, catches the reflection of his desk lamp and throws it back, garish, in his face.

Suddenly, it all seems so horribly _futile_.

Enjolras has been feeling like this a lot lately, usually in the small hours of the morning when he's alone in the apartment. There's something tight and lonely about the wan glow of his computer screen across the cluttered desk, the way moonlight falls through venetian blinds. The neighbors are either too loud or practically non-existant: a couple of fellow college students who throw parties with throbbing music every weekend, and a handful of put-upon normal people who avoid eye contact in the stairwell and never respond to his 'good morning's. 

It's weird, and unsettling, because Enjolras isn't the kind of person who gets  _lonely_. He's self-sufficient. He's not Achilles, he's Hector.

He finds himself wishing, irrationally, that he had a TV. Shitty late-night programming might provide a cheap momentary distraction from the empty bedroom, the hollow cone of light falling from his desk lamp—and, hey, what's wrong with a little instant gratification?

Antsy, he texts Combeferre.

_how's the er? -e_

_  
_Combeferre—bless him—texts back within minutes.

_actually, not horrible. only got vomited on twice. how's the polisci?_

_  
_ _terrible._

_how so?_

_i don't know. i just can't seem to write well. too quiet._

_i'd think a little quiet would do u good, e_

_it's too constant. i feel like i'm the only man on the planet right now._ Then, realizing how dopey that had sounded (even if this  _is_ Combeferre, who knows almost all of Enjolras's dirty little secrets and has admirably refrained from almighty judgement for the past three years. 

Combeferre doesn't respond right away, and Enjolras assumes that he's either with a patient (possibly being heckled, Enjolras has spent more time than he'd like in the university hospital's Emergency Room and seen his fair share of unruly casualties) or dealing with some kind of medical emergency.  He considers texting Courfeyrac, who's probably bartending at that dive next to the bridge, the place where there's sawdust on the floor and Joly almost had a panic attack after seeing rats under their booth—but the owner signs up shitty cover bands to play weekends, including Sundays (when all the "sad drunks" come out of the woodwork, according to Courfeyrac), and Enjolras doubts that Courf would hear his phone over the chaos of drums and tuneless guitar.

Enjolras has nearly nodded off over his textbook—the chapter heading  _Gender and Government_ swimming before his eyes—when his phone vibrates on the desktop, jolting him from near-sleep. He leans back and rubs his eyes, Combeferre's curt message blurring and coming into focus. _  
_

_e, i think you need a roommate._

* * *

_  
_"I don't know." Enjolras empties another packet of sugar into his coffee, pointedly ignoring Combeferre's judgmental look. It's _his_ health, he'll use  _ten_ packets if he likes. Then, always hesitant to express doubt, "I don't think so."

"You complain about being lonely." Combeferre takes a prudent drink of tea. "I don't see why you're balking at the chance to live with another person."

"I'm not  _balking_ ," Enjolras mutters, reaching for a stir-stick. The Musain—their preferred hangout—is buzzing at seven-thirty in the morning. "I just doubt that it would work out."

"Grantaire is definitely  _not_ as bad as you're making him out to be, Enjolras. He's an  _art student_ , not a—not a—"

"We obviously don't..." Enjolras stirs wildly, searching for some kind of eloquence. "Mesh. I don't know."

Combeferre shoots him a swift, disappointed glance. Shrugs. Drinks more tea.

It started like this: a few months ago, an unfamiliar face had begun to appear regularly at Society meetings. Far from ingraitiating himself with the organization, Grantaire had shown up to drink and heckle. If someone brought a case of beer, he'd stick around long enough to get mildly buzzed and argue with Enjolras about the finer points of protest. Enjolras disliked—dislikes—Grantaire in a vague, can't-really-be-bothered kind of way. The guy's an artist, kind of carelessly handsome, the type of student who spends too much time talking his way into keg parties.

"He seems like a partier, Combeferre. That pretty much directly opposes my personality."

"He's not  _that_ much of a partier," Combeferre says, with a certain air of authority. "I have his number on my phone."

Enjolras stares. Looks into the oily depths of his coffee. Stares some more.

He heaves a tortured sigh, grimacing as Combeferre smirks and reaches for Enjolras's phone.

"Fine," he mutters. He dumps another sugar packet into his coffee. " _Fine_."

* * *

Wednesday morning, he wakes up at eight-thirty to an almighty pounding on the door.

"Coming, coming, coming!" Enjolras untangles himself from his sheets— _shit, it must be Grantaire_ —to pull on yesterday's pants and shirt, stumbles into the bathroom, scrubbing a toothbrush across his teeth and tongue, making an attempt to finger-comb his hair on the way to the front door. The knocking ceases as he trips down the hallway and unlocks the door, and when he pulls it open Grantaire is standing on the doorstep.

"Grantaire." 

"Hey, dude." Grantaire lifts a hand. He looks extrordinarily hungover. "Scruffy" seems too cute and complimentary; Granatire's dark hair is more tangled than curly, and his cheeks are dark with stubble. He looks wan and exhausted beneath the hood of a maroon university sweatshirt.

"Come in," Enjolras steps away from the door, trying to sniff discreetly as Grantaire shoulders his way through. The smell of hard liquor wafts in after him. "I can show you around."

He dogs Grantaire into the small living room—barely enough space for the "secondhand" couch that Courf had found on the roadside by the river (but the smell gets fainter every week, so that's a plus, right?) and a weird wicker coffee table that he found at a sidewalk sale for ten bucks.

"We can move the couch," Enjolras explains, gesturing broadly to the small space. Where they'll put it, he has no idea. Maybe sell it, although he can't imagine anyone offering more than a couple of bucks for it. 

"No, man, I'm  _happy_ to sleep on the couch." Grantaire scrubs his palms across his face and drops onto the couch, bouncing weakly. The springs inside the cushion—is that even a thing? Springs in couch cushions?—creak noisily. 

"Don't you have a bed?"

Grantaire says, "um."

Enjolras inhales deeply. "Look, do you want some coffee?" He turns and hurries to the kitchennette, busying himself with the coffee pot. He's starting to regret taking Combeferre up on this little offer; he can't imagine two people jostling for space in the already-cramped apartment, banging elbows over the counter where he's stowed his microwave and coffee pot, the tiny sink. 

"That sounds fucking fantastic," Grantaire mutters, and sinks onto the stool Enjolras has pulled up to the counter. 

"Late night?" 

Grantaire laughs weakly. "Something like that."

Enjolras lets the silence swell a little, broken only by the damp boiling-water sound of the coffee brewing. Then he says, "We should really talk about the logistics of this."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. Okay." Grantaire nods eagerly. "I can pay up front. First month. Whatever you need, anything, I'll do."

"Uh. Okay." Enjolras is more than a little taken aback by this sudden devotion. "I was thinking just breaking the rent down the middle. Is that—is that okay?"

"Fine!" Grantaire says. "Fine, I just need a place to live right now, you know."

Enjolras decides against asking exactly what Grantaire means. "So, when do you want to bring your stuff by?"

"Tomorrow work?" Grantaire coughs. The circles under his eyes are dark, like he hasn't slept properly in a while. When he leans over to accept the cup of coffee Enjolras offers, the smell of alcohol rises from his sweatshirt. Enjolras thinks about commenting on the fact that it's a  _Wednesday morning_ , but just as quickly rules against it.

"Sounds great," he says as he shows Grantaire to the door. And then, because frankly he's been worrying about this, "You know, the Society comes over a lot. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan. Those guys."

Grantaire turns in the doorway, lurching a little. "Afraid that I'll say something stupid in front of your friends, Enjolras?"

Enjolras notices the minute pause before Grantaire says his name. Like he'd been about to call Enjolras something else. 

"That isn't what I meant." He puts on his best 'authority-figure' voice, the one he uses at the Center for Youth Diversity when he's talking to unruly kids. "I wanted to give you a heads-up so you wouldn't be surprised. Sometimes we get talking about rallies pretty late into the night."

Grantaire lets Enjolras usher him gently into the hallway. Rap music thuds on downstairs. He turns back and gives Enjolras a weary smile. The circles under his eyes squinch up. 

"See you tomorrow," Enjolras says firmly.

"Yeah." Grantaire puts his hands in his pockets. "Tomorrow."

As soon as Grantaire is out of sight, Enjolras leans against the doorway, allowing a heavy sigh to escape his lips. He fishes his phone out of his pocket. There's a text from Combeferre flashing across the screen.

_how did it go?_

_  
_Enjolras thinks for a moment. The faint smell of liquor lingers, hard and weighty.

His fingers hover over the touchscreen for a moment before he taps in the message.

 _to be perfectly honest, i'm not sure yet_.

He pauses for a long moment before hitting 'send'. 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here there be smut(ish)

* * *

 

"I think I've made a huge mistake." Grantaire watches the Corinthe blur yellow as he stares at the bar through the bottom of his glass. Across the table, Éponine pulls a well-mannered grimace. 

"R, it's about time you moved out of that shithole. Besides," she reaches over to sock his arm a  _little_ harder than strictly necessary. "This means you won't have to crawl to  _my_ doorstep when you're drunk off your ass and can't remember where you left your keys!"

He manages a humorous shrug before taking another long drink of beer.

"Who's the roomie, anyways?" Éponine questions, leaning closer until Grantaire can see every dark freckle on the arch of her nose. Her eyes, green-gray, swim weirdly before him. "Is he cute?"

"Uh." Grantaire puts his glass down, spins it a little between his hands. "It's actually Enjolras. That guy who runs the—"

"Oh, my God." She stares at him. Blinks. "I thought you, like, hated each other."

"We don't  _hate each other_ ," Grantaire grits out. "Look, I shouldn't have said anything."

"Um, no, you definitely should have." Éponine winds a lock of dark hair around her index finger. "I look forwards to seeing this adventure unfold."

"I'm not your evening soap opera," Grantaire says loftily, but it's hard to act high and mighty when you're trying to drown yourself in cheap beer. "Also, keep it down." He forgets that Courfeyrac works here most nights, and although he hasn't seen the dashing student activist yet he knows that Courfeyrac keeps odd hours and might come through the door any moment, hear him talking about Enjolras...

"Why?" Éponine looks at him funnilly. "You're acting kind of weird about this, R."

"I'm not," he says, far too quickly. And then, as a cheap cover, "he just seems like a tight-ass— _hard-ass_ , like a  _hard-ass_ , is all."  _Fuck, fuck, fuck me a thousand times over._

Éponine just about  _howls_ into her glass. 

"I didn't mean—yeah, ha ha, fuck you, 'Ponine, very funny, ha ha..." Grantaire struggles to keep his composure, but it's difficult when his face is roughly the temperature of the interior of a volcano and his throat feels all tight and Éponine is practically kicking him under the table.

"You just blew your cover, dude," she says amiably, but Grantaire is already standing up. 

"I'm not nearly drunk enough for this," he mutters, and goes to buy some more beers.

* * *

It's almost midnight when Combeferre catches up to Enjolras outside the library. 

"Hey! Enjolras!" 

Enjolras spins as someone catches his shoulder; he turns, half-expecting it to be Grantaire. 

"Oh. Hey."

"How did it go?" Combeferre asks eagerly as they head for the bus stop. A bitter wind kicks up, cutting Enjolras's jacket like a knife. 

"He was hungover."

"Grantaire isn't usually..." Combeferre begins, but falters and lets the words trail away. "He's a really good guy, Enjolras. I think it's good that you'll get to know each other better."

"Maybe," Enjolras allows, checking his watch. The bus is running on time—a rarity—and as they feed dollar bills into the meter, he allows, "I'm still not sure it's such a great idea. The guy doesn't even own a  _bed_."

"So?" Combeferre collapses into a seat, slinging his backpack onto his lap and adjusting his eyeglasses. "He's an artist. He's—you know, different."

"Different than me, you mean."

Combeferre sighs. "It's a good thing, Enjolras. You hang around us too much, anyways. It's good to branch out."

"I'm a senior. I don't need to 'branch out'. That was freshman year." 

A stream of head and taillights swing past in the cold darkness. Enjolras pictures him and Grantaire making late-night pots of coffee in the little kitchen, finally having someone to talk to about upcoming rallies...

"Okay." He rubs his palms together. Reaches over to pat Combeferre's shoulder through his bulky parka. "Okay, you're right."

He tries to tell himself that while walking home, while unlocking the door, flicking on the lamp so that light floods the chill, dark apartment. A nice change, he tells himself. A nice change.

* * *

"No, he's really hot." Éponine leans drunkenly on Grantaire's shoulder, laughing as they wind their way towards the Corinthe's exit. Sad, slow music is playing—Grantaire's lucky he's not a weepy drunk. "Not as hot as Marius, but. You know."

Grantaire doesn't get it—Marius is actually kind of dopy-looking, he thinks, always grinning like a real dork—but Éponine is sold and everyone's allowed to have  _someone_. 

"This isn't something you can talk about in front of other people." He feels like he's going to throw up.  _Tight-ass_. What a fucking idiot. "For real, though. I'm so, so serious right now."

"Okay. Okay." Éponine's still laughing when the bus pulls up. And, like a fucking ray of light, Grantaire sees Enjolras sitting near the back, next to Combeferre. They're locked in conversation about something, neither of them looking through the window. Enjolras is framed by the bus's flourescent lights, shadows falling onto his cheekbones, his hair like a halo...

Grantaire swallows, realizes that he's been staring at Enjolras's lips and running his tongue around his own. Éponine turns back on the steps of the bus and waggles her eyebrows, but he doesn't see her. He's not sure if he waves or not. 

By the time he gets back to his apartment, he's hard in his jeans, slams the door and leans against it, nevermind locking it, unzips his jeans and lets his hand drift to his cock. Enjolras's image floods his mind—like a goddamn  _searchlight_ —and within minutes he's coming hard, full of shame, his knees going weak. He slumps against the closed door, breathless, and realizes with a jolt that it had been Enjolras's name on his lips when he'd come. 

* * *

At ten-thirty on Friday morning, Grantaire is outside Enjolras's place, stamping his feet to ward off the cold.

Enjolras opens the door after only two knocks, and Grantaire pretends that he didn't spend a good portion of last night miserable and rock-hard, imagining what Enjolras would look like on his knees, lips around Grantaire's cock.

"Hello." Enjolras steps away from the door. "Is that it?"

"Yep." Grantaire lifts his backpack, gives Enjolras a smile. "Well, this and the art stuff."

"Sure, sure." Enjolras peers at the stack of canvases and cardboard box full of art supplies in the hallway. "Just put it whereever. It's your space."

"Awesome," Grantaire says, and drops the canvases on the coffee table. Enjolras has cleared the place up, leaving only the couch and table, and Grantaire doesn't care that the couch is a little stained because it feels good to have his own space. 

"I realize that it's not ideal." Enjolras comments lightly as Grantaire swipes a hand over the red cushions.

"No, dude, it's great." He inhales. "Nothing a couple rounds of Fabreeze won't fix!"

Enjolras turns away. He's dressed already in a button-down shirt and pants, pulls on a duffel jacket that's hanging by the door. Grantaire watches silently.

"Sharp."

"I have an interview, actually." Enjolras says smoothly, and zips the jacket. "I'll probably be back around seven tonight."

"Okay."

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac will probably come over, too."

"That's cool."

Enjolras doesn't say anything, but he gives Grantaire a lingering look before leaving.

* * *

 When Enjolras returns several hours later, Grantaire is already ensconsed on the couch cushions, working his way through a sketchbook and a case of PBR. He looks up when the door is unlocked and opened; Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac come through, winter boots loud on the wooden floor, shedding jackets and hats. Combeferre looks over, says, "hello, Grantaire," and Grantaire waves in reply, a pencil between his lips and another in his left hand.  

"It's only seven PM, Grantaire!" Courfeyrac says jokingly, flipping his jacket onto the back of the kitchen stool. Grantaire lifts his bottle in toast and mock-salutes. Behind the counter, Enjolras scoffs.

"I expected nothing less, to be honest."

Combeferre shoots him a warning look, but Enjolras isn't paying attention. He's already pulling print-outs from his backpack, brightly colored: red, black, white. Posters. Grantaire glances over, shakes his head. The three students don't see him. Combeferre smiles in his direction—perhaps an answer to Enjolras's flippancy—but the trio of activists spend the remainder of the evening ignoring him. 

So Grantaire gets steadily drunker, until he's sketching loosely, filling up five pages of the book, ten, twenty, and he's  _killing_ this life-drawing assignment because finishing a 200-page sketchbook by the end of the semester is a bitch but he thinks he's got this down.

The pencil lines are starting to blur before his eyes (though from exhaustion or drunkeness he can't tell) when Combeferre comes over and puts an arm on his shoulder.

"Those are fucking amazing," he says, and when Grantaire jumps, "sorry—sorry. I know you're not supposed to look at an artist's work without asking."

"It's fine," Grantaire says. "No, it's fine. You wanna see?"

"Yeah," Combeferre says. "Guys, look at this."

Courfeyrac comes over, drops onto the couch next to Grantaire, the smell of coffee and mints flooding Grantaire's nose as Courfeyrac's curly hair bobs closer, bending over his sketchbook. He flips through, starting ten pages in. Rough sketches of three figures bent over a counter, abstracts of Combeferre holding up a poster and gesturing, neat, exacting line drawings of the three students.

"Wow," Combeferre says quietly, when Grantaire flips to his last drawn-on page. "Enjolras, look at that."

Grantaire looks up—Enjolras has drifted over, is standing with his arms folded up. His gaze flicks to the paper. A drawing of him, of Enjolras with his palms flat on the counter, mid-argument (they'd been talking about the Society, or about some Diversity Center, something that had riled Enjolras up, made his cheeks red and his words biting). The curve of his cheeks and lips, the way his hair fell down around his ears, across his forehead. Everything captured in smooth, even lines.

"I'm shocked that you're able to render straight lines. You certainly couldn't walk one right now."

Grantaire lets a hollow laugh escape; the air goes out of his chest, replaced instantly by something oddly akin to rage and shame and hurt.

"I put Bacchus to shame. I drink and I forget myself but something pretty fucking good comes of it sometimes." He stands, slamming the book closed. "Sometimes."

He leaves Enjolras and Combeferre and Courfeyrac in the front room, goes into the bathroom and closes the door a little harder than necessary. He cranks on the shower, becaus he needs to do  _something_ , steps in when it's scalding. He wets his hair and doesn't care he looks a mess and the alcohol is starting to get to him, and Grantaire realizes after a while that he's got a hard-on. He turns off the water and puts his ear up to the cold plastic fake-tile, and through it can hear Enjolras bidding Combeferre and Courfeyrac goodnight. So he turns on the water and reaches for his cock and jerks himself off angrily, thinking about the fire in Enjolras's eyes when he'd been talking about...whatever he'd been ranting on. 

The thought of that fire burning elsewhere is enough to send Grantaire over the edge quickly, and he comes stifling a moan with his lips moving against his forearm.  _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He keeps stroking himself for another moment, although it's a little painful it feels alright, because he's in a little pain right now, anyways. Then he gets out of the shower and roughs up his hair with his towel, and winds it around his waist before going out into the little hallway.

Enjolras is standing in his bedroom doorway, illuminated in the harsh light from his desk lamp. They stare at each other for a long, turbulant moment.

"Goodnight, Enjolras," Grantaire says, and returns to his couch. Enjolras doesn't reply, but he vanishes into his bedroom. Grantaire looks after him, then turns away, shakes his head. He should have known. He should have chalked Enjolras up as a shitty housemate the moment he'd seen him. Curt to the point of being rude. 

Feeling utterly, ten-thousand-percent-done, Grantaire pulls on some flannel pajamas pants and falls onto the couch shirtless, tugging his fleece 'Harry Potter' themed blanket up around his ears.

There's nothing but quiet darkness, the faint sound of music from downstairs. Cooking noises from upstairs (what the hell, neighbors, it's, like, one o'clock in the fucking morning!?). The shower running. Grantaire's mind flies to Enjolras in the shower—to the hot water on Enjolras's shoulder, his back, his stomach, what does his stomach look like, the skin just below it, lower, Enjolras leaning back against the wall and stroking his heavy cock. 

"Fuck." Grantaire whimpers, his teeth descending on the skin of his forearm. He's hard again, and his cheeks are hot. But Enjolras is in the shower and he doesn't need to keep it down, so he lies on his back and fucks his fist hard, moaning open-mouthed and filthy, kind of ashamed but not so ashamed that he doesn't let out a hot, low moan when he comes into his hand. He's barely cleaned up when the bathroom door opens, spilling yellow light into the hall, and Enjolras appears in the living room doorway.

"Goodnight, Grantaire," he says softly, and flicks the light out, leaving Grantaire in warm darkness. 

* * *

Morning breaks full of patchy clouds, and Grantaire, who has slept poorly, takes refuge on the narrow fire escape with a cigarette. Sure, it's half-outside Enjolras's bedroom, but Grantaire definitely doesn't glance over to try and get a look at Enjolras sleeping, maybe shirtless or—

"What are you doing?"

Grantaire turns, lifting the cigarette to his lips. "Smoking." He offers one to Enjolras, who is standing in the hall clad in a button-down shirt and boxer shorts.

Enjolras waves away the proffered cigarette. "Could you maybe not do it so close to the apartment?"

"What? Am I supposed to go out in the yard?" Grantaire gestures to the small, frosty yard around the apartment block; dying shrubs and short, crunchy dark grass. "What a sentence, Your Honor!" He mimes falling to his knees and pleading with interlocked fingers, the cigarette still dangling from his lips.

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose. Exhales. Counts silently, mouthing:  _one, two, three_.

"No. Smoke wherever you like, so long as it isn't indoors."

"And to think," Grantaire smirks, "that I would have begged you on my knees."

But Enjolras is already turning away. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Sure," Grantaire says, and watches Enjolras's ass as Enjolras goes down the hall and hangs a right into the living room/kitchenette. 

He stubs the cigarette out against the railing, ducks back in through the window to trail after Enjolras. Enjolras is brewing coffee, doing up his shirt buttons with superhuman speed.

"I've been sleeping in a lot lately," Enjolras says shortly. "Which will change starting tomorrow. I've got early classes and I'm volunteering at the CYD starting at seven-thirty."

"The what now?" Grantaire drags his fingers through his hair. 

"Center for Youth Diversity." Enjolras reaches for two mugs. They're mismatched—both ceramic, one decorated with garish painted kittens and the other advertising a Broadway run of 'Phantom of the Opera'. "It's an organization a few miles from the campus. You've probably passed the building, it's near the Rec Center and the Musain."

"Yeah," Grantaire says. "The Musain." He almost slings a comment about hipster cafés being superior to Starbucks because Starbucks is a gross capitalist enterprise and he thinks that Enjolras might smile at that. 

He doesn't say anything, only extends his mug (Phantom of the Opera, the Phantom staring romantically from beneath a white half-mask) so that Enjolras can tip some coffee in. 

While Enjolras gets dressed, Grantaire has another cigarette out on the fire escape. As soon as he hears the door close, he stubs out the butt and climbs back into the apartment. It's warm and the smell of coffee lingers; Grantaire hastily sweeps last night's beer bottles under the couch, promising that he'll pick them up later. When he straightens up, he realizes that someone has folded his Harry Potter blanket tidily on the cushion, and laid his sketchbook on top. There a sticky-note plastered to the front, right over the Strathmore logo. 

_you left this in the bathroom last night. i thought you'd get better use of it if you actually had it with you._

_by the way, i think that your drawings are fantastic._

_-e_

_  
_Grantaire gets dressed quickly and rinses out his coffee cup, then puts the empties in a garbage bag and hauls them downstairs to the communal dumpster. Only as he's loping back up the stairs does he realize that he's been grinning like an idiot for the past five minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

Combeferre tries to dissuade him.

"Look, I don't think it's a good idea. None of the rest of us are going." Combeferre zips up his maroon sweatshirt (an article of clothing Enjolras is fairly certain once belonged to  _him_ ) and lifts his cafeteria high, navigating a crowd of bleary-eyed freshmen.

"You're the one who usually decries our 'pack mentality'," Enjolras snipes, pushing a quarter into the cafeteria's milk dispenser. Combeferre gets in a hearty sigh-and-eye-roll combo as they find an empty table and sit. "Maybe I'm interested in doing something political in spite of the opinions of the  _rest of_ you."

Combeferre looks at him for a long time. Then he says, "okay."

"Okay? That's it?  _Okay_?" Enjolras stirs frantically at his Cheerios. "You're not more...concerned?"

"Nope."

"Well. Good."

"Yeah."

" _Good_."

" _Yeah_." 

They sit facing each other, arms folded. A brief, intense stare-off commences, lasting roughly a minute and a half and interrupted by Courfeyrac, who sidles up to the table, stops, glances over his shoulder, and then bends down between them.

"Um. Can I ask why neither of you are blinking?"

"We're having an argument," Enjolras says, and at the same time Combeferre says shortly,

"We're having a disagreement."

"Wow. Okay." Courfeyrac nabs a chair from a neighboring table and straddles it backwards. "Well, I was gonna ask about our meeting tonight, but..."

"There isn't one." Combeferre removes the black plastic lid from his tea, stirs in a packet of honey. "Enjolras has decided to take on a more important project this evening."

"I never said  _more important_. I believe I used the term  _more immediately crucial_."

Courfeyrac rakes two hands through his unruly dark hair, regarding both Combeferre and Enjolras with an expression of vague, amused horror.

"You'd better not let the rest of the Society catch wind of this. They'll feel like kids whose parents are fighting."

"That isn't helpful, Courf." Enjolras scoops a spoonful of cereal. "And Combeferre is right. There won't be a meeting tonight. I'm going to an outside rally. In the city."

"Okay. For what, exactly?"

"It's through the CYD."

"The Center for Youth Diversity?" Courfeyrac whistles low in his throat. "I respect that. They seem serious enough."

"They are. Thank you." Enjolras is pleased with this. Combeferre stirs more honey into his tea, replaces the lid and drinks deeply. It's obviously extremely hot (Enjolras sees the steam curling up against Combeferre's glasses) but Combeferre refuses to balk at the temperature, perhaps in a show of strength. 

"So, what are they rallying against?" Courfeyrac asks, helping himself to some of Enjolras's Cheerios. "You, I mean. What're you rallying against?"

"Against the proposal of a law that would restrict sexual health education in public schools." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Enjolras knows that he's fucked up. Courfeyrac replaces Enjolras's spoon in his bowl, leans back and arches his eyebrows.

"Wow. Sounds right up my alley. Should've told me about it." He doesn't say it in a  _rude_ way—if Courfeyrac is capable outright rudeness, which Enjolras is seriously starting to doubt—but there's something low and tense in his voice. "I would have gone with you."

Because everyone knows that sexual education is Courfeyrac's 'thing', and has been for a long time—possibly since the tenth grade, when neither Combeferre nor Enjolras knew him and the ABC Society hadn't even been  _thought of_ , but he'd stood up in a public school classroom and announced that the Sex Ed class was discriminating against youth who self-identified as queer, female and/or didn't conform to the male-female gender binary. Since then, he's essentially been the Society's Sex Ed instructor—giving speeches about safe and consensual sex practices, handing out free condoms around campus. Combeferre's always there to provide medical information and a "doctor-y perspective", as Courfeyrac dictates, but sex ed is kind of definitely Courf's thing.

Enjolras realizes that his cheeks are heating up in a shame-blush that's quickly spreading to his neck. Shit. He stands up, lobbing his paper bowl into the nearest trashcan.

"Next time," he vows, and shrugs on his jacket. "Next time. See you tomorrow, guys."

 He all but flees the cafeteria, feeling horrible about it, and once he's through the sliding doors he doesn't look back.

* * *

When Enjolras bangs through the apartment door, he finds Grantaire sprawled on the couch, smoking.

"What the  _hell_?" Enjolras swipes his hand in front of his eyes. The living room/kitchenette/ _half of their fucking apartment_ is hazy with green-gray smoke. "That's not...?"

"I needed inspiration!" Grantaire sits up, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm going through serious art-block right now."

"You've got to be kidding me." Enjolras crosses the room and throws open the window; the smoke is thick and pungent, hard to inhale. It sits in the base of his throat. "I ask you not to smoke  _cigarettes_ inside and you think it's okay to  _light up a fucking joint_?"

"What?" Grantaire lifts the rolled joint to his lips, held between two finger, and inhales. Holds it in for a moment, exhales deeply. The smoke rolls from his lips, slowly, and he tilts his head back, exposing a white strip of throat...

"Two weeks! You've been here two weeks." Enjolras tries to suck in deep breaths (a half-hearted attempt to calm down) but the air is heady with marijuana smoke and he feels light-headed, his chest fluttery and he's  _so fucking pissed at Grantaire right now_. "You clean this shit up right now. I'm so serious, Grantaire. Christ."

Grantaire rolls his eyes. Looks up at Enjolras, puts the joint to his lips again.

"You should try some. You might. Loosen up. A little." Every sentence fragment is puncuated by a slow, ever-broadening smirk. "Sit down. I'll show you."

"I don't smoke." Enjolras hisses. "Mostly because, unlike you, I have no interest in pissing my life away. Two weeks is all it's taken, Grantaire. You squander your education on a useless major, you sit around and waste time and money getting drunk off your ass—and—and stoned, too, apparently, and you bitch about life but really it's all your fault. Because you can't be half-assed to get up and  _change_ anything about it."

The silence falls like a brick. Grantaire reaches up and slowly removes the joint, chews on his bottom lip. Exhales the smoke slowly, through one corner of his mouth. 

"Fine," he says. That's it. Fine. 

Enjolras stares at Grantaire, and Grantaire at Enjolras. And suddenly, Enjolras wants to break down, to spill everything, let the words tumble out:  _I fucked up, I'm doing this thing on my own tonight but I really don't know what I'm doing, I excluded my best friends but I don't know why, and I made them feel like they did something wrong and now I'm shouting at you but really I'm angry with myself..._

But the silence swallows him whole.

"I'm going to a rally in the city. I'll be back tomorrow."

He turns and goes down the hall into his bedroom, stands there by his unmade bed. He'd done a load of laundry yesterday, dumped it all on his bed after hauling it home from the laundromat. He sifts through the clean, wrinkled clothes, sorting out an outfit for tonight. A white t-shirt, his red duffel jacket because it's still cold, black jeans. He won't have to pack the inside of his shirt with cardboard, because it's a peaceful rally, and he won't have to slip a sheet of paper with emergency phone numbers (Courfeyrac's, Combeferre's, his mother's work phone) into his pocket, because there's no danger of getting roughed up. It feels weird, and Enjolras doesn't like it. There's only silence from the living room, and suddenly he feels very, very small.

He puts his change of clothes into his backpack, and ventures out again. Grantaire has opened all the windows. The joint is gone. There's no sign of any of the scattered canvases or sketchbooks that had been spread out around the couch minutes ago; Enjolras wonders if Grantaire had put them away to clean up, or hidden them. Both thoughts were equally unpleasant. There's no sign of Grantaire, either, and Enjolras realizes that he never heard the door close. Grantaire's jacket, the ratty green army-style coat he favored, is gone. It would be typical, Enjolras thinks darkly—Enjolras, the schoolboy revolutionary, so wrapped up in his thoughts that he hadn't heard his roommate go out. 

Feeling supremely shitty, Enjolras shoulders his backpack, turns out all the lights, and locks the apartment up. Then he walks to the train station, standing for a long time in the mid-morning cold. His mind drifts to Combeferre and Courfeyrac: Courfeyrac has class, Combeferre is going to the hospital for his volunteering rounds. Had they talked about him, after he'd left this morning? There's no doubt in his mind—nothing nasty, no bitchy comments slung—but there had been such a look of unmistakable disappointment in Combeferre's eyes, something akin to betrayal in Courfeyrac's.  _  
_

He feels like the shittiest friend in the world.

The train is fifteen minutes late, and by the time he boards it's been raining for ten minutes and he's all but soaked. Enjolras doesn't even notice.

* * *

"I told you! Ugh, I fucking  _told_ you!" Éponine cups her hand around her mouth and lights up a cigarette, because this is the Corinth and state smoking laws don't apply here. "What a fucking asshole."

"It was my fault," Grantaire mutters. "Smoking pot inside. It's not even my apartment." 

"But you..." she pauses. "Well, yeah. It was your fault. But it sounds like he was a total dick to you."

"I don't know." Grantaire upends his glass, tilting more Jim Beam down his throat. There's a 'Whisky Wednesday' discount in full effect at the Corinth, and Grantaire's been taking  _full advantage_ all evening. Since about five o'clock, in fact. Which means that by now (eight-thirty, by his wristwatch) he's roaringly drunk. "I'm just really confused."

"Shit, aren't you always?" Éponine says, but when she continues there's a wistful quality to her voice. "Sometimes people aren't all they seem to be, you know. Sometimes they just lead you on, again and again. Sometimes you think they notice you, but they don't."

"That's not exactly..." Grantaire begins, but falters and lets the words die in his mouth because a) he realizes that she's talking about Marius again and b) he can't lie to himself about Enjolras anymore. 

"It's like, whatever." Éponine exhales smoke. She's too young to smoke, Grantaire thinks dumbly, barely eighteen. He's seized by the sudden and unwelcome urge to grab the cigarette and grind it out on the floor.

"It's not 'whatever', Éponine," he says softly. "You deserve someone who's good to you. Who cares about you. Who loves you, who-who treat you  _right_."

"Yeah, alright." 

"I mean it." He rises unsteadily. "I've got a portfolio to work on. You want to come back to mine?"

"No, thanks." She draws her hair back, away from her face, and adjusts her tank top (it's too cold for no sleeves, Grantaire wants to say, put on a jacket or something, but he doesn't) and when he leaves he sees her making eyes at the bartender, some skinny fashionable kid who works when Courfeyrac doesn't and is always wearing an all-black ensemble. 

The wind is driving, and Grantaire hurries home from the bus stop. Funny, that he thinks of the apartment as 'home'. The part of him that fears permenance balks a little at that, especially now—the downstairs apartments are lit, but his and Enjolras's windows are dark and curtained. When he unlocks the door he's greeted by a blast of frosty air. 

 _Goddamit_. He'd forgotten to close the windows before he'd left. And, evidently, so had Enjolras. 

Grantaire stumbles around shivering, slamming all the windows closed and then turning on the radiator. He sits on the couch under two blankets (his Harry Potter fleece blanket and a thin polyster number he'd found in the hall closet) and tries to draw. He manages a couple of uninspired sketches, simple drawings that won't pan out, won't turn into anything  _worthwhile_. He wishes he had that joint. The apartment warms up slowly, the tick of the radiator Grantaire's only distraction from silence. Reflecting on the past two weeks, he realizes that he  _misses_ Enjolras' usual sounds: frantic typing, the shuffling of papers from his bedroom. Enjolras sitting at the counter or the table in the kitchenette, bent over a textbook, the slick sound of a highlighter gliding across paper.

He sketches some more. At ten o'clock he walks five blocks to the nearest bodega and buys a case of PBR. Enough to get drunk quickly and cheaply. The walk home is brutal, but he drinks two beers before reaching the apartment, hurling the empty cans in long, arching throws to nearby dumpsters. He wonders what Enjolras is doing right now. Probably standing on a goddamn soap box and ranting about the State of the Union.

At eleven, Grantaire is satisfactorily drunk and there's a knock on the door. He barely hears it at first—a sort of weak scraping sound. Then his name. Kind of low and mangled. 

"What the fuck." It isn't a question. He rises, resisting the urge to wrap himself in the Harry Potter blanket like it's a shawl, and goes to fling open the door and grumble at whoever has the  _nerve_ to come calling at this hour (probably Éponine, but whatever), but when he slides the lock back it's—

"Enjolras?" Oh,  _shit_. Grantaire catches Enjolras clumsily, nearly tripping over himself and Enjolras is trying to stand up but there's  _fucking blood everywhere_ and— "Oh, god, what the fuck did they  _do_ to you, Enjolras?"

"Nothing, nothing, 'm fine, just..." Enjolras limps inside, and Grantaire helps him over to the table before scurrying back to lock up the front door. When he returns Enjolras is bent double, pressing one hand to his nose. There's blood all over his fist. His white t-shirt is stained, that ugly horrifying color of blood before it's really dried. His hair is wild, like he's been brawling. 

"What the fuck, man?" Grantaire speeds to the sink, grabs handfuls of paper towels. "Here, put that on your nose." He hisses "fuck" when Enjolras pulls his hand away and Grantaire gets a look at the damage: a really,  _really_ bloody nose, a black eye, a split lip. There's gonna be a nasty bruise on his cheekbone in the morning. "How did this happen?"

"Things got out of hand."

"You need Combeferre for this," Grantaire says, and fumbles his cell phone from his jean pocket. "I'll call—"

"No, don't!" Enjolras reaches up and grabs Grantaire's wrist, gripping it hard. They stare at each other for a moment. There's something like panic in Enjolras' eyes. 

"Okay." Grantaire drops his phone on the table. "Okay, I won't."

Enjolras looks down. Scrubs at his nose with a corner of paper towel. It comes away scarlet. "Thank you."

"You need to...I'll help you...clean yourself up." Grantaire puts his hand on Enjolras' shoulder, feels warm skin under his palm. Like Enjolras is burning through his shirt, like he's some kind of supernova that can't be contained by cloth and skin and bone. "Just. Wait here."

He dashes to the bathroom for first-aid supplies, brings back an armful and dumps them on the table. 

"Hold still." He dumps antiseptic onto a folded paper towel, raises it. Enjolras reaches out and catches Grantaire's wrist.

"Wait. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Grantaire bites back an ill-humored laugh. "I've been in my share of barfights."

"Right." Enjolras says, and only hisses a little when Grantaire kneels in front of him and applies the antiseptic. Grantaire drinks it in, feeling only mildly awful: the way that Enjolras tilts his head back, baring his throat, the way his eyes roll when Grantaire presses a bandaid across the bridge of his nose. It's little things like that. 

"How are you now?" Grantaire asks, when he's plastered Enjolras' nose and lip with bandaids and wordlessly handed him a frosty PBR to hold over his black eye. 

"My whole face kind of hurts. A fucking lot, actually, but other than that I'm good."

Grantaire considers for a moment. "Want a Percocet?"

"That's illegal." Enjolras rolls the beercan over his upper cheek and winces. "Perscription medication."

"Yeah," Grantaire says. "It's illegal. It'll also knock your pain out of the ballpark for the next, like, four hours."

Enjolras is silent for a moment. Then he heaves a righteous sigh. "Dope me up, I guess."

Grantaire laughs and mimes a fist-pump, then goes to sort through his backpack. He finds the Percocet in a yellow plastic perscription bottle (and, yeah, the perscription was actually issued to Éponine for wisdom-teeth removal pain but that was a while ago and she only needed about four of the pills, so) and empties one out. He hands Enjolras the pill and three Advil. 

"Take it. Trust me."

Enjolras stares at him while he downs the pills (with water, because even Doctor Grantaire won't consent to chasing them with beer). Then he sits back and sighs, and won't look at Grantaire for a while.

"Thank you. I really. I mean it. Thank you."

Grantaire scoops the medical-supply rubbish into the wastebasket (shit, those paper towels are really soaked with blood) and straddles his chair backwards. "Why did you come home? Why not go to Combeferre? Or Joly?"

Enjolras hangs his head. He puts his knuckles to his split lip, where the blood is already mostly-dried. "This rally that I went to, it wasn't sanctioned by the Society. It was something I heard about through the Center for Youth Diversity, but they wouldn't claim legal responsibility for those who went. I should have known that something would go wrong then, if a stand-up organization wouldn't back it. But I let it go to my head. I went alone, and things got out of hand, and someone threw a bottle at a cop. There was a strong police presence. It was inner-city, dangerous neighborhood. I got hit in the face with a nightstick, I think that's my cheek and eye, someone punched me and split my lip. I couldn't tell if it was another protestor or a cop, or." Enjolras falters, his tongue runs around his lower lip. "I feel really weird right now."

"That's probably the pain meds."

"Yeah. Probably." Enjolras looks up, and suddenly he's kind of half-laughing, the corners of his eyes pulling up and there's a little dried blood between his front teeth from his gashed lip but Grantaire still thinks it's about the hottest thing he's ever seen. "I came back here because I couldn't go to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, because this morning I made them feel shitty about me going to the rally, I made them feel like they weren't important enough to come with me. I acted like a total  _dick_ towards them, and then I came back here," and Enjolras' hands are catching at Grantaire's, "and I acted like a dick towards you for smoking inside which really pissed me off but I was just angry with myself. Not with you."

"I know," Grantaire mumbles, but how can he concentrate when Enjolras' fingers are entwined in his, when Enjolras is saying  _I feel like my head's floating, is this what being high is like Grantaire_ and so he says, "kind of, kind of" but oh, god, Enjolras is grabbing the front of his shirt and saying  _my face hurts so bad, dude_. And Grantaire looks down and before he can stop himself he's bringing his thumb up to Enjolras' lip, brushing the pad of his thumb over the cut. Enjolras winces. 

"You're going to be fine," Grantaire says, but he's leaning forward and so is Enjolras and they are magnetic pulled towards each other slowly, then all at once. 

And in a single swift movement their lips are pressed together. And Enjolras is kissing him. And Grantaire is kissing Enjolras.

"Wait," Grantaire says, and moves to pull away because something about this isn't  _right_ , Enjolras is loopy with pain medication and...

"Don't," Enjolras is talking against Grantaire's mouth, and Grantaire leans into the kiss, delirious with touching Enjolras finally,  _finally_ , Enjolras' warm skin through his bloodstained shirt and they're on their feet, Grantaire guiding them towards the couch because he's afraid that he might go weak at the knees if he doesn't sit down, and they collapse onto the stained cushions together. Enjolras' hands is on Grantaire's knee, traveling rapidly up his thigh, and Grantaire presses his own hand to the front of Enjolras' pants. He's kissed a lot of people, but never like this. It feels like something inside of him is on fire.

"Fuck," Enjolras hisses when Grantaire's hand shifts over the tight front of his pants. Encouraged, Grantaire fumbles Enjolras' jeans open and thrust his hand inside, putting his fist around Enjolras' cock, and Enjolras is moaning something low and unintelligible into Grantaire's mouth and Grantaire jerks his fist up and down, the movement rough but Enjolras moans and thrusts his hips, fucking up into Grantaire's hand, and Grantaire's pretty sure that he's died and gone to heaven.

"Oh, god," Enjolras whines, and suddenly he comes hard, cheek pressed to Grantaire's chest, hands fisted in Grantaire's shirtfront. He writhes like he's spasming, moaning breathless as he kisses Grantaire messily again. They pull apart. Enjolras' chest heaves; his stomach is trembling. Grantaire presses a hand there, puts one hand on Enjolras' shoulder and Enjolras leans into his touch.

 _This is wrong_. The thought hits him hard and fast. This is wrong. Enjolras' eyes are hazy, clouded, like he isn't thinking straight. He's breathless and practically clinging to Grantaire, and there's cum on his white shirt and suddenly Grantaire feels sick. 

"I should. We."

"Don't get up. Where're you going?" Enjolras slurs, laughing softly, as if to himself. "Come here."

"I can't," Grantaire says, but he doesn't move. He is aware of Enjolras' hands undoing his jeans, pulling the zipper down. Sliding a warm hand inside. As Enjolras touches his cock, Grantaire lets out a low, involuntary moan. He breathes something that sounds like  _don't_ , but Enjolras is touching him with smooth, practiced movements and Grantaire moans again, louder, and jerks his body up into Enjolras' touch and his hand is on the inside of Enjolras' leg, and he's close, very close to the edge, he's gasping and then crying out wordlessly, coming so hard that his entire body jerks with the force and everything is white and hot. 

Enjolras says something, but it's distant, Grantaire can't hear and he's not  _that drunk yet, dammi_ _t_ , but he feels himself giving up, like falling asleep, and he's exhausted, feels like he's run for a thousand miles and Enjolras is leaning into the crook of his arm and before he knows what's happening everything is warm sweet blackness.

* * *

He wakes up at ten o'clock, completely missing his morning Art History lecture. The apartment is cool and silent; Enjolras is gone. Grantaire goes into the bathroom and strips off his jeans, thanking whatever deity might be listening that he hadn't woken up with his dick out of his pants. Then he realizes that he either zipped himself back up after...the  _thing_...or someone else had for him. Which is a roundly humiliating thought that lingers even after he's taken a very, very frigid shower and gotten dressed. 

Then it's almost noon, and he figures that he should get up to the campus before his afternoon Figure Drawing class. It's a quick walk to the bus stop, and as he's pushing his dollar bill into the meter he sees Combeferre sitting alone. 

"Hey. What's up?"

"Grantaire." Combeferre sort of claps him on the shoulder. Grantaire wonders momentarily if it's in Combeferre's nature to be even mildly unfriendly, quickly rules against it. A little distant sometimes, maybe, but in the time that Grantaire's known him Combeferre's never actually been outright  _rude_. They ride in silence for awhile, a persistant question pressing at Grantaire. He doesn't really want to ask at all, but figures that if he has to—and he really,  _really_ wants to know—there's no better man for the job than Combeferre.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." Combeferre pauses his music and removes his headphones, tilting his head towards Grantaire. 

"Is Enjolras gay?"

"Why?" Combeferre says at once. Too quickly. "Did he say something?"

It's not so much in the way that Combeferre speaks—because he says it casually, like it's no big deal—but somehow Grantaire just knows.

"Uh. Not exactly." A pause. Well, he can't  _not ask_ now. "Um, did you guys ever...?"

Combeferre looks away. Grantaire realizes that in the few months they've known each other, this has never come up. And he's never actually seen Combeferre, like, making out with anyone of either gender, so. 

"A few times, if you must know. Sophomore year, mostly. It was..." but Combeferre trails away, and doesn't finish.

"A hookup?" Grantaire supplies, mostly because—selfishly—he doesn't want to imagine Combeferre and Enjolras sharing so close a bond. Combeferre shakes his head.

"I think that we were both lonely. And we trusted each other."

Then he's silent, leaving Grantaire to imagine what sex between Enjolras and Combeferre would be like (sweet, he thinks, and probably pretty innocent, unless one of them was hiding a really filthy side, and it's always the quiet ones, right? And then he starts thinking about Combeferre growling obscenities into Enjolras' neck while fucking him and  _holy fuck no stop_ ) and by the time the bus reaches campus he's holding his sketchbook in front of his pants and trying pitifully to act casual.

"You know, you can always tell me anything," Combeferre says before they head their seperate ways. "What happened between Enjolras and I was several years ago. We've moved past it." He pauses. "I would appreciate if you. You know." He makes a vague gesture. 

"I won't," Grantaire says. 

"It was just something that happened," Combeferre says, and Grantaire gets the distinct feeling that he's saying it more for Enjolras' benefit than his own. "See you around, Grantaire."

Grantaire walks to the art department feeling very weird. He tries to focus on figure drawing, but it's near impossible when his mind creeps back to the previous night, unbidden and unwanted. 

 _Did Enjolras_ know  _what he was doing? Fuck, he didn't actually, like, consent—did he? Fuck me. Don't actually fuck—well, not that I would. Ugh, fuck, fuck, fuck, this is_ so  _not ideal. So fucking typical. Giving your roommate a fucking handy when he's high on pain medication that YOU FUCKING GAVE HIM oh god what've I done._

 _  
_"I really appreciate your focus on movement and style." Grantaire about jumps out of his skin at the sound of his professor's voice. She's appeared behind him, ghostly in a white woolen shawl, to peer over his shoulder critically. "But next time, please make more an attempt to _draw the model_."

"Sorry, shit, sorry." He's scrambling to flip the page of his sketchbook, cheeks superheated. The model at the front of the class is a 20-something woman, long dark hair, full breasts. Grantaire sneaks a glance at his first drawing. A neat rendering of a thin figure, head thrown back, short, wavy pale hair and parted lips. 

 _So fucking typical_. 

He turns the page. 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Enjolras isn't good with apologies.

It doesn't come naturally to him, the same way that keeping quiet about certain (read: most) feels sort of innately  _wrong_. So when Combeferre arches a single eyebrow across the cafeteria table and says, "You look like you've been through the wringer", Enjolras has to sift through what he's socially supposed to say versus what he thinks he should.

In the end, he blurts, "I got what I had coming, didn't I?"

"That's what you get," Courfeyrac says brightly, "for thinking you could pull off a social revolution without us."

But Enjolras can tell that he's masking concern with mild passivity, the same way that Combeferre puts down his coffee and says,

"You know, you could have come to me." 

Enjolras has spent more time in Combeferre's apartment (and, before that, the bathroom at the end of their dorm's hall) allowing Combeferre to patch him up than he'd frankly care to admit, mostly because he's spent most of it wincing and chewing on his lip while Combeferre does painful medical things and tells him to  _go to a hospital already, dammit, Enjolras, I'm not actually a doctor_ , to which Enjolras typically replies  _not yet_ and lets Combeferre get on with it.  _  
_

"I know." He feels something like shame, a warm blush that creeps under his collarbone, and he lowers his head.

"You look good, though," Combeferre says briskly. "Someone knew how to treat a black eye and split lip."

"It was Grantaire, actually." Enjolras swallows hard. "He, uh, knew what he was doing."

"Evidently. I'm impressed."

"Don't be. He'd gleaned the medical know-how from self-medicating after barfights."

Combeferre raises a single eyebrow (doubtless a skill garnered from years of reacting to Enjolras' antics) and says nothing.

"It's obviously served him very well," Courfeyrac comments, pulling a clunky laptop out of his messenger bag. "Anyone want to read my PolySci paper's conclusion?"

Enjolras reads it carefully, commenting softly where he finds disruptions in Courfeyrac's smooth, easy argument. It doesn't feel like he's being persueded to think ill of two-party systems, just like Courfeyrac's talking to him, a little formally but good-intentioned and honest. It's a wonderful essay, really. As he's reading, Enjolras catches Combeferre looking at him sideways, a quiet, arch look. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.

* * *

Combeferre is weirdly quiet for the rest of the day. He vanishes during lunchtime, claiming that he has a paper to finish in the library, and doesn't reappear again until the afternoon, when Enjolras calls him from outside the Humanities building.

"Hey, 'Ferre. Where are you?"

"On my way." Combeferre says, and Enjolras can hear traffic sounds behind him. "I can see you right now."

Enjolras cranes his neck, looking across the campus parking lot, and sees Combeferre at once; loping across the main road with his backpack on. He hangs up.

They head for the Musain; there are low, heavy clouds, and the air smells like rain. Enjolras zips up his jacket. 

"I should have gone to you," he says, when they've gotten to the fringes of campus. He can't stand the silence, not when there's something that needs to be said. "I should have gone to you but I didn't. I was too proud."

"You're always—" Combeferre says, but stops. "You can always come to me. I don't care if it's the middle of the night, Enjolras. I don't care if you fucked up. You can always come to me."

"I was ashamed."

"Grantaire seems to have done you a good turn, though."

"Can I tell you something?" Enjolras turns to Combeferre. He can feel the words like glue in his throat; he's halfway between begging himself not to keep talking and spilling everything. "It's. About Grantaire."

"What?" Combeferre says. 

Enjolras shakes his head, a jerky motion like a reflex. "It's nothing."

"Tell me." A pause. "Unless it's..."

"I'm not sure this whole roommate deal is working out so well," Enjolras lies hastily. His heart is beating high and fast in his chest, the horrible thrill of almost letting something slip. "Did you know that he uses marijuana?"

"So does half of the student body," Combeferre says mildly. "Why does it put you off?"

"You know that I dislike the principle of using recreational drugs. He says that it helps his creativity."

"Maybe it does."

"Yeah, well."

They keep walking in silence.

* * *

Courfeyrac has a night class, so it's just Combeferre and Enjolras hashing out plans for their next rally.

"I think that we should stress the hike in tuition." 

"Okay," Combeferre says, and makes a note on a napkin. The Musain is typically quiet; it's evening, and there are only a couple of sleepy students scattered around, drinking coffee, making small talk in low voices. "There's actually been a lot of concern about that. We could talk about the implications with students who rely heavily on financial aid—"

"—and how the college's decisions to raise tuition could influence their ability to graduate, which has  _huge_ socioeconomic implications—"

"—because youth without college degrees earn more than twenty-two thousand dollars per year _less_ than those with college degrees, and are more likely to face unemployment, so that plays into homelessness—"

"—yeah, yeah. So this goes much, much further than a hike in tuition. This is the future of our nation." Enjolras realizes that he's breathing kind of hard. Combeferre's paper napkin is covered in untidy handwriting, notes scrawled upside down and sideways because they've started to run out of space. 

"Good." Combeferre smiles. "You want something to drink?"

"Okay," Enjolras says, and while Combeferre goes to buy drinks he sits at long wooden table and tries not to think about the past. 

He ends up getting stuck on an old memory, like his brain is a record with its needle caught in a groove, playing on a loop. It involves him wearing someone else's t-shirt and a shared bed. The feeling of someone else's arms around his middle. He's broken from the reverie when Combeferre returns, bearing coffee (for Enjolras) and tea (for himself, something about it being  _healthier_ , how ridiculous, Enjolras thinks, but how wonderfully  _Combeferre_ ). 

They talk a while longer, in the warm dim Musain, and then it's almost eleven and Enjolras has homework to do and Combeferre's due for another late shift at the hospital. 

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow," Enjolras says, but his mind feels static-y, fuzzy and blank. 

"Sure, yeah." Combeferre pulls on his jacket and a woolen hat. "Text me if you have any other ideas tonight."

"I will," Enjolras mumbles, barely moving his lips. Combeferre touches his arm and then goes out into the windy night. Enjolras pays for a beer, although he usually doesn't drink on school nights. He takes the bus home feeling very strange. Everything is moving quickly. He's thinking about the past but also about a future which seems to be drawing inevietably closer.

* * *

Grantaire is smoking on the fire escape when Enjolras comes in, locking the door behind him and dropping his keys onto the counter. He can tell because all the lights are on and the apartment is fucking  _freezing_. He follows the faint smell of smoke to the open window.

"Shit," he mutters, sitting on the ledge and swinging his legs over, "it's freezing out here."

"Is it?" Grantaire jams the cigarette between his lips. "I don't feel anything."

"Maybe you should come inside," Enjolras says, because Grantaire is wearing an ugly woolen sweater and no hat. It's parka weather out here, at the least. He wonders why Grantaire isn't shaking - maybe all the alcohol in his blood has created a kind of beer-fueled homeostasis. It's a disturbing thought, if a little improbable.

"I'm alright." Grantaire exhales pearly smoke. "Your face looks good."

"It doesn't hurt like it did before."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"I know how it feels," Grantaire says, almost automatically. "Getting knocked around like that."

"So you've said."

"It hurts really bad at first. Like a bitch." He's addressing Enjolras' lips, avoiding eye contact. "But the pain goes away after a few days. Drinking helps - you don't feel it, especially after you've had a few. And in a couple of weeks you've forgotten how much it hurt. And then you go out and you do it again, and you get the shit beat out of you. And it hurts a lot worse than it did last time, maybe because you weren't expecting it. Maybe because you were just  _telling_ yourself that you weren't, and you really  _were_ expecting it to hurt."

Enjolras swallows. His throat feels tight and sticky.

"I have - this paper, for-"

Grantaire nods, mute.

"- it's due tomorrow, so..." he gestures stupidly. Grantaire nods again. He exhales. 

When Enjolras swivels and ducks back inside, it feels like fleeing.

* * *

He has frantic, blurred dreams that night in which Grantaire kisses him slowly in a dark room. There are fumbling hands and the sound of someone moaning, and he wakes up hard and confused. There's a certain furtive shame in jerking off in his bed in the middle of the night. Time seems to slow down, and all Enjolras sees is that dark room and his hands knotted up in someone else's dark curly hair, and when he comes he moans a name, strangled, gasping.

And then his face is hot and his chest feels tight, and he lies in the dark for a long time, thinking. 

It had been Grantaire's name on his lips.

* * *

"Can I talk to you?" Enjolras forces a casual tone into his voice, hefting what feels like thirty pounds of library books into his arms. Courfeyrac slides his computer into his bookbag, shoulders it. The library's usual crowd of procrastinators and 4.0-frantics has thinned out; it's late afternoon, and snowing. 

"Sure. Is this about the Society?"

"Not exactly." Enjolras has been secretly planning out this conversation's course since six AM, when he decided that it was necessary to consult an outside source. "It's about. Uh. An issue of a more - romantic - type."

"Romantic?" Courfeyrac is obviously - and poorly obvious, Enjolras thinks - trying not to stare. "Okay. Shoot."

They hurry through the library's doors, trading warm quiet for the high-ceilinged hall.

"I'm asking for a friend, actually," Enjolras says, and then feels like punching himself because that's  _exactly_ what someone  _not_ asking for a friend would say. "In a way. It's sort of this thing with..."

"Sure," Courfeyrac says lightly, without accusation. 

"How do you deal with -" and then there's nothing to tell but the truth, because anything else will set off Courfeyrac's finely-tuned bullshit-detector like crazy. "Having feelings for someone that you can't control?"

Courfeyrac pauses for a moment. "The feelings, or the person?"

"What?"

"What can't you control: the feelings, or the person?"

Enjolras almost laughs. Courfeyrac opens the door at the end of the hall and they go out into the dim afternoon. It's frigid, and snow flurries around them. Courfeyrac pulls up his hood, a faux-fur-trimmed number from the local thrift store. 

"Both, I guess. Neither. I can't control - " but something hits home in that, and it's uncomfortable. "I'm not sure how to approach them. As you know, I'm not exactly an expert in this realm, Courf."

"You're no casanova," Courfeyrac says brightly. Enjolras refuses to regret asking, mostly because it's either Courfeyrac or Combeferre, and Combeferre is painfully mature about any kind of sexual matter. When they go out, Courfeyrac's the first to start hitting up 'smoking' dudes or ladies (or both, or neither). Combeferre is the kind of guy who goes home with someone once in a blue moon, and never talks about it. One time he made out with a girl in a bar and Courfeyrac choked on his beer so badly that Joly almost had to give him CPR. 

Anyways, Enjolras  _can't_ go to Combeferre because yeah, that bridge is burned, they torched them a long time ago but there's still something that prevents him - and always  _will_ prevent him - from talking seriously about anything even remotely sexual around Combeferre. 

"Do they know how you feel?"

"No," Enjolras says, far too quickly. Then, slower. "They can't know."

"Why not?"

"They just can't. It's complicated."

"Okay," Courfeyrac says. "Well."

"Well, what?"

"Maybe you should tell them. If you value the possibility of a romantic relationship more than the relationship you have with them now..."

"Maybe I should," Enjolras agrees, too hastily, but his cheeks feel concerningly warm. "Should the need arise, I will."

"Will what? Make your  _romantic intentions clear, Mister Darcy_?" Courfeyrac gives Enjolras a good-natured nudge. 

"You know me too well," Enjolras gripes, but can't help resenting the comparison. He's always faniced himself something of an Elizabeth Bennet - though the suggestion of Regency-era English gentry is enough to make him shudder - aloof and superior to love and lust and all it's clumsy implications. 

"But seriously, I think you should - well, think about it. Seriously. Meditate on it."

"I don't typically meditate."

"Ask Jehan. Or Combeferre. They're very meditative these days." Courfeyrac adjusts his hood. "Last week I walked in on Jehan having reached what he claims is an enlightened state. It was very brief."

"Sounds kinky."

"And  _that_ ," Courfeyrac says, lightly and without accusation, "sounds like something Grantaire would say."

 

 

 

 


End file.
